


nothing to forgive

by sterlingsparrow



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 14:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19402381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingsparrow/pseuds/sterlingsparrow
Summary: Javert cuts his hair. Valjean helps him tidy it.





	nothing to forgive

**Author's Note:**

> you know how gay people cut their hair super short in a moment of catharsis? yeah

“You cut your hair,” he says. It is in the way one does when something so surprising has happened one’s only reaction is to say what has occurred. Javert nods once, fingertips drifting up towards his uneven locks.

“Why?” he asks, and has to resist his own urge to touch that newly shorn hair.

Javert shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says flatly. Valjean takes the scissors from him, lest he get the idea to cut something else.

“This is uneven,” he murmurs. “May I fix it?”

The man’s gaze falls to the floor, then up at Valjean again, almost nervously. “Yes,” he says at last. It is the quietest Valjean has ever heard it.

He nods, reaches out to turn Javert round. The job is worse in the back. Portions of hair are long enough to reach Javert’s jaw, while others are so short Valjean hates the thought of cutting the man’s hair so tightly. It is not Javert’s fault, of course; no one can see the back of his own head.

He allows himself to brush the tips. “If I cut this tonight, will you agree to see a barber tomorrow, to tidy it?”

“No.”

“I am not a barber, Javert,” he says. “I do not know how much I can fix this.”

With his hand on Javert’s shoulder, Valjean feels more than hears him take a deep breath. “I don’t care,” Javert says, almost sullen.

“All right.”

He begins to work.

Tufts of graying hair fall from the scissors and land on Javert’s shoulders, or the floor, or Valjean’s hands. He brushes them off when they do. He can sense Javert’s chest rising and falling, the way it does when he is nervous or frightened. (Not that he would ever admit it.) Valjean wishes he could calm the man’s nerves, but he has never considered himself very good at such a thing, and he doubts he would be very calming with a pair of scissors in hand anyway.

“How long have you worn your hair long?” he murmurs. It is an attempt to avoid the heavy silence that has fallen upon them. For a moment, he thinks it has failed, but then he hears Javert speak.

“Ever since I was a child.”

“Ah.”

He knows how Javert dislikes change. It makes sense, then, that the man wore his hair long even when it had been out of fashion for decades, or if it was troublesome to keep up. Not that he has ever known Javert to be vain. No, what he must have struggled with most was the effort, the risk involved with being a long-haired police inspector. Valjean wipes a lock from his hand. Javert has always kept his hair in a queue, but one can only do so much to keep long hair down and still out of the way. This will be safer.

“Will you miss it?”

Javert’s voice is so quiet he barely hears it. Valjean tries to think of a response. It is difficult, as he is mostly focused on making the man’s hair neat.

“I know how much you liked it.” Javert has turned thoughtful. (A stunning development.) “At night, when you ran your hands through it, or when you asked to tie it back in the morning.”

He pauses at last, hands resting on Javert’s shoulders. “Possibly,” he admits. “But what good is it to dwell on things that are gone?”

Javert snorts. “Always a philosopher.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Not that I know of.”

This earns a laugh from Valjean in turn, and the air that was so heavy before is lightened. He resumes his work. It has come down to shaping what is left into a respectable cut, because Javert must always appear respectable, and this proves to be more challenging than clipping down locks of varying sizes. He is silent and Javert is too, which, he supposes, is fortunate. He needs all his concentration for this task.

“There,” he says finally, brushing a few clippings from Javert’s shoulders. “This is the best I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“It was no trouble. At least you left your sideburns alone.” Valjean manages a halfhearted smile, and Javert cracks a grin in return.

“Those,” he says airily, “will stay until the end of time.”

Javert goes down on one knee then, grunting with the effort. “I will clean this up. It’s my fault there’s such a mess, anyway.”

Valjean bites his lip as he kneels himself. It is impossible to ignore the pained expression on Javert’s face; his right leg has never been the same since his fall, and besides, Valjean is used to kneeling in the garden.

“May I touch your face?”

Javert’s expression is doubtful, but he nods anyway. Valjean reaches out and takes the man’s head in his hands.

“Get to bed,” he whispers. “It has grown dark outside, and you need the rest.”

Javert’s gaze is stony. “I can take care of this.”

“I am well aware, _mon ange_.” The slightest blush rises in Javert’s face. “But I would prefer you to rest. Indulge me.”

“I spend my days indulging you,” he mutters, but he rises hesitantly. He groans as he does so, and Valjean cannot help but grimace.

“I will be there soon,” he calls as Javert walks from the room. The man gives a single nod of acknowledgement, and that is all.

Valjean allows himself a single sigh as he looks upon the mess, a single moment of annoyance for what Javert has done. He then recalls the way he had looked when Valjean found him: eyes reddened, his gaze unfocused as he tossed the scissors from hand to hand. Javert’s demeanor had been that of the guilty, of one who knows that they have done wrong, but their sin is so egregious it cannot be hidden, and they are simply waiting fearfully to be caught. It is not something Valjean has often seen on the man, and it is not something he wishes to see again.

He sighs again, this time with sorrow, and sets upon his newfound work.

It takes longer than he had first thought to clean all the hair from the floor. By the time he has finished, Valjean’s knees are aching, his eyelids drooping, and he is very glad to change into his nightshirt and then crawl into bed.

Javert turns towards him as soon as Valjean climbs onto the bed. His features are pensive for a split second, then school themselves into something more… ashamed.

“You must be angry with me,” he says quietly, Valjean settling in beside him. Valjean frowns.

“Why would I be angry?”

“I cut my hair and made a mess of the kitchen.” Javert’s eyes are fixed on some unknown point in the darkness. “You had to make it orderly for me, and cleaned what I left behind, which should have been my duty.”

“Stop being ridiculous.”

“I should’ve gone to a barber.”

“It’s _all right_ ,” Valjean reminds him, turning on his side. “May I touch your face?”

Javert nods.

He cups the man’s jaw in a hand. “You were… lost, tonight. I understand; I do not fault you for it. There is no reason to be angry with yourself.”

Javert simply stares back at him. He makes no sound, but his drawn brows give the impression that he begs to differ.

“Does it at least comfort you when I say that I like your hair this way?”

He snorts. “You are lying.”

“Come now. When have I lied to you?” Javert’s brows raise, and Valjean gives a helpless laugh. “In the last year, I mean!”

“I can think of at least three times in the last week alone,” Javert says dryly. A smile graces his lips. Valjean cannot help but smile in return. It is all the more beautiful for its rarity, and it is a sign that Javert is no longer so lost as he was when he took the scissors to his locks.

“I am serious,” Valjean murmurs when their smiles die away. His hand moves to the side of Javert’s head, to run his fingers between the now-short locks. For once, he forgets to ask permission to touch, as is their custom, but Javert doesn’t seem to mind.

The shortened hair feels almost freer in a way. He wonders if Javert feels freer. He wonders if he ever felt choked by his long hair.

“Forehead?” A nod. Valjean leans forward, presses his lips to Javert’s forehead. Javert’s hair falls in his eyes now, and he must first push away some of those locks.

He leans back. “I am glad that you have done this,” Valjean whispers.

“I am not so sure of it myself.”

He brushes a hair behind Javert’s ear. “I hope that you are.”


End file.
